


With Scarves of Red Wrapped 'Round Their Throats

by lucyinthesoupwithcroutons



Series: Teen Wolf Christmas [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucyinthesoupwithcroutons/pseuds/lucyinthesoupwithcroutons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles needs to hide some incriminating marks on his neck and Derek drowns him in scarves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Scarves of Red Wrapped 'Round Their Throats

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much my first completed fic in a good few years and was written for the first day (prompt: Scarf) of Teen Wolf Christmas on Tumblr (teenwolf-christmas.tumblr.com).
> 
> A billions thanks to Toasted-Ghost (toasted-ghost.tumblr.com) and Pyth (http://archiveofourown.org/users/Peahen) for the beta work and an extra big thank you to Pyth for helping shape the plot and putting up with me bouncing ideas off you at all hours of the day and night over gchat.
> 
> I'm fairly certain no warnings are needed on this particular fic, but if there's anything in here I need to tag/warn for that I didn't, please feel free to tell me.

Stiles has a problem.

Though it’s pretty low down on his list of problems if he’s being honest. On a scale of one to ten – one being not having any milk for his Fruit Loops in the morning and ten being that time he nearly bled to death in the Beacon Hills High School swimming pool – it’d merit a solid three at best, but it’s a problem nonetheless.

It’s not the criminally attractive werewolf currently working his way up Stiles’ neck – _that_ he could actually do with some more of, if he’s being honest. He would like a lifetime supply of that, if possible.

No, definitely not that. It’s related to that, though. See, with the alphas finally sent packing and his relationship with Derek solidified, they seem to find themselves taking every opportunity to climb all over each other like a pair of horny teenagers. At least Stiles has the excuse of actually _being_ a horny teenager. He doesn’t know how Derek justifies the way they’ve been spending every last minute of their spare time in Stiles’ bed.

Not to mention the train depot, the jeep, the Camaro, the woods, the school locker rooms, convenient secluded alley-ways... The list goes on, really. The pack are this close to dousing them with buckets of cold water every time they so much as make eye contact.

Which inevitably leads to Stiles’ current problem: Derek, the territorial bastard, has been marking him pretty thoroughly as his mate. Not that he isn’t loving that (not that he isn’t finding it _ridiculously_ hot if he’s being honest with himself – he thinks he may have uncovered a kink), but it’s getting more and more difficult to hide the marks on his neck from his dad.

Because as much as he’d been cool about the werewolves, the kanima, and the dating the older man/werewolf/former wanted criminal with a dark past? Yeah, he didn’t want to push things by flaunting exactly how up close and personal he’d been getting with Derek’s mouth.

 

~

 

The day his hatred of having to constantly go around with his shirt collars up wins out over his libido is an embarrassing two weeks after the whole marking thing starts – he never claimed to have the best self-control in the world, alright? – and even then he can only bring himself to put a slight restriction on things, rather than a full embargo.

Dammit, he’s got it bad.

“Hey, not to tell you how to do your thing or anything, because you’re doing a great job there—“ As if to prove a point, Derek bites down slightly, eliciting a moan and losing Stiles his train of thought almost entirely “Oh, wow, yeah. See? That’s what I mean; you could do that for a living. But, uh, could we put a collarbone or lower rule in place?”

Derek’s reply sounds  like it might mean “I’m confused as to why, but I’m more than okay with that”, though given that his lips are busy and it’s delivered in the form of a grunt, it’s hard to tell.

“I’m tired of eating my shirt every time I turn my head too fast. Plus I look kind of ridiculous.” His hips buck upwards involuntarily as Derek moves lower. “Nnngh. Your betas haven’t exactly been quiet about it. You should – ah, God, _right_ there, yes, keep doing that please – you should keep them in line a bit better.”

He’s getting slightly breathless at this point, but he figures he’s gotten his point across, so he lets himself be distracted.

 

~

 

And for almost a week everything is fine. If he were to take his shirt off in front of anyone he’d still look as if he’d had a fight with a vacuum cleaner and lost pretty badly, but without any new ones to replace them, the marks on his neck have faded to the point that he’s already planning which t-shirt to wear when he’s able to display it again.

That is, right up until Derek seems to forget their agreement.

He stops mid-moan as the realisation hits him and rolls off Derek, scrambling to the nearest mirror. As he suspected, a vivid red mark is blossoming so far up his neck that it’s practically heading for his jawline.

“Ugggh, _Derek_. No. What did I say about keeping them lower?”

“I—Oh God, shit, sorry.” Derek’s reflection is grimacing in Stiles’ mirror.

“Just. Ugh, you know what? _Screw you_. I can’t even get my collar to go this high. I’m going to have to wear a _turtleneck_ , Derek.”

Derek frowns slightly “What’s so bad about a--“

“A. Turtle. Neck.” He adds for emphasis. “I’m just gonna look douche-tacular. Like Jackson on a bad day. If he had bad days... I don’t even know if I _own_ a turtleneck, what are you trying to do to me?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Derek says, looking suitably contrite. If there’s one thing he always apologises _immediately_ for, it’s doing something Stiles doesn’t want in the bedroom. It had really freaked Stiles out at first, the sudden and complete admission of guilt rather than the usual glaring match and drawn-out argument it takes to get Derek to admit fault in any other aspect of the pack’s lives. It’s one of the many things about him Stiles is still trying to figure out.

“Hey, not as if I don’t love what you’re doing – trust me, you can keep that up all the live long day and you’ll hear no complaints from this guy – I just really don’t want the awkward father/son chat it’s gonna lead to. So, you know – _lower please_.”

“I know... I’ll be more careful.” He promises, nodding gravely.

“Good wolfy.” Stiles smirks, moving back to the bed with renewed purpose – intending to wipe the remorse from Derek’s face now that he’s sure he’s got his point across.

He captures Derek’s lips in what he hopes is a very obvious all-is-forgiven-now-get-back-to-ravishing-me kiss and pulls them over so Derek is on top this time. As Derek moves down his chest, Stiles inhales sharply, his grip on Derek’s back tightening, nails digging in slightly.

“Mmm, you know how you can make it up to me?”

Derek’s mouth is busy once again, but Stiles takes the little noise he makes in the back of his throat to mean “I’m listening”.

“Scarf. Find me a scarf that makes me look less stupid than the turtleneck and the collar popping.”

Derek’s head falls forward slightly, a laugh escaping his lips as he pauses, the sudden whoosh of air against his skin making Stiles shiver.

“A scarf? Really?”

“Yes, really! A nice scarf. I want _all_ of the nice scarves.” He laughs but his breath catches short as Derek goes back to what he’d been doing before he was interrupted. “You’re why I have to hide my neck, so you’re gonna help me hide it in style.”

“Alright. All of the nice scarves. I can do that.” Derek says, grinning.

Any further thoughts about neck accessories are driven from Stiles’ mind then. He has other things to focus on.

 

~

 

Stiles hasn’t even jumped out of his damn jeep at school the next morning when things start getting weird. And he resents that, okay? Because no matter how freaky things have gotten in the last couple of months, the universe has always let him get his feet on the ground and his keys out of the ignition before it goes ahead and screws him over. Maybe the universe just hates a guy in a turtleneck, he honestly can’t say. But the streak has definitely ended.

The source of the weirdness is none other than Boyd; leaning casually against the nearest bike rack, lazily twirling a gigantic woollen scarf with some kind of _tassels_ hanging off the end and beckoning at him to come over. He has to admit it’s a damn nice scarf, he can see that even without leaving his seat, but there’s something ominous about it that he just can’t put his finger on. Could be the way Boyd’s smirking at him.

It doesn’t do to be rude though, and in any case he’s not getting out of the parking lot without at least _acknowledging_ that he’s seen Boyd and The Scarf That Probably Spells Doom, so in the end he decides to just suck it up and haul his ass out of the jeep. He doesn’t exactly stick the landing, but thankfully Boyd has already moved close enough to keep him from actually ending up on the ground. Before Stiles can even thank him, he gets a face full of fabric.

“Present for you, Stilinski.”

That’s literally all the information he gets before Boyd’s sauntering away, chuckling to himself and shaking his head. It takes less than thirty seconds for relief to win out over indignation and Stiles pulls the turtleneck off, thankful he’d worn a t-shirt underneath, swapping it for an open shirt he’d tossed in the back seat mostly out of denial. Feeling more like himself already, he wraps the new scarf securely around his neck. He knows from bitter experience this probably isn’t the last of today’s weirdness, but at least he looks less ridiculous.

 

~

 

Sure enough, he’s sitting in chemistry ten minutes later, waiting for the bell to ring and Harris to get on his ass about something or other, when his head gets jerked back and the entire world goes dark. He sputters and flails for a moment, ready to turn and attack, but his blindfold is lifted as suddenly as it had dropped on him. Erica is standing behind him, unfurling the scarf to its full size with a flourish and draping it around the one he already got from Boyd.

“Present for you, Batman.”

He’d be mad, but he’s far too focused on the fact that she somehow managed to find a BATMAN SCARF for him. It’s black with a yellow trim and a bat signal woven into the pattern at each end. This? This he can live with. This is pretty cool actually.

 

~

 

Unfortunately, by lunchtime he’s starting to overheat.

Scott had caught him after Finstock’s class with a friendly grin and an eight-foot-long one, not entirely unlike the fourth Doctor’s, circling him with it until the entire bottom half of his face was buried. Allison had taken the opportunity to wrap him in one he wasn’t even able to _see_ over all the layers, as Lydia and Jackson double-teamed him with their own contributions to Derek’s ridiculous evil scheme.

It’s left him walking into the lunch room – completely  unable to see his own feet he might add, that shit is dangerous – fairly certain that he’s about to pass out. He sits down at their regular table without even bothering to get food, flopping forwards and disappearing beneath his scarves like a turtle going into its shell.

He feels someone – he’s fairly sure it’s Scott – plop down beside him and hears a muffled “Dude, are you okay?”

“Too. Many. _Layers_.” He whines. “I can’t even find the end of it to take it all off; I’m trapped.”

Bless Scott’s little heart; he feels his woolly prison unravelling around him. 30 seconds later Scott has disappeared beneath an armful of knitwear and Stiles can breathe again.

“Thank you. Oh my God.” He grabs a few napkins off the tray of food Scott got for him and just starts wiping his face and neck with them. Dignity be damned – you cover a guy in knitwear, you can’t get cranky when he sweats.

“Dude. Have you seen your neck lately?”

“I’m guessing Derek put you all up to this?” Stiles completely avoids the question, grabbing the Batman scarf back from the pile and wrapping it securely over any incriminating marks.

Scott starts folding the remaining scarves and putting them in a Macys bag that’s just appeared out of the ether. Given that Lydia is now sitting one seat down from him, Stiles suspects she had a hand in it.

“Made us an offer we couldn’t refuse.” She informs him as she checks her already flawless makeup in a sleek black compact.

“Which was?”

Jackson slaps the back of his head as he passes by, slipping into the gap Lydia had left.

“We’d get to drown you in scarves. Duh.”

“Is that seriously all it takes to buy your loyalty? You suck.” Stiles shakes his head, slapping Jackson’s hand away with his fork from where it’s edging towards his curly fries. “No fries for you, you nearly gave me heat stroke. How did Derek even—”

He trails off, noticing the suspicious way Isaac’s hands are moving under the table. He narrows his eyes.

“If you ambush me with whatever scary neck accessory you’ve got under there, I’m gonna put wolfsbane in your soup.”

Isaac actually goes a little red, ducking his head and averting his eyes. He pulls a pair of comically large knitting needles, with nearly two feet of a chunky knit scarf dangling from them, out from under the table.

“I thought –“

“Oh my God, is that for me?” Stiles asks, oddly touched. “Dude, nobody’s ever knitted me anything before, that’s awesome!”

He can feel the incredibly goofy grin spreading across his face, but he honestly doesn’t care. Isaac’s eyes light up in response. He pulls the ball of wool he’s working from up onto the table and quietly continues knitting. Stiles watches him work for awhile, mesmerised by the way the wool slips over the needles. It’s thick wool on thick needles, and the scarf starts to expand surprisingly quickly.

“I totally take back the wolfsbane comment by the way. I’ll just give it to Jackson instead.”

“Hey!”

“Well, if you don’t want people to poison you, be less of a jerk.”

“Just ‘cause you’re Derek’s little chew-toy now doesn’t mean I can’t still kick your ass. So if you don’t want me to make you _eat_ all those scarves, don’t call me a jerk.”

“Does pretentious douche feel like a better fit?”

“Screw you, alpha-fucker!”

“Lizard-breath!”

“Play nice, boys. Don’t make me separate you.” Lydia doesn’t even bother to look up from her soup, though Stiles sees her lay a restraining hand on Jackson’s leg under the table.

Jackson leans back, crossing his arms and muttering something that sounds vaguely threatening and extremely petty under his breath, but doesn’t push the matter any further. Stiles decides to count it as a victory.

 

~

 

The end of the day finally comes and Stiles gathers his ridiculous Bag O’ Scarves to head home. He’s starting to get itchy and he’s honestly just looking forward to shutting himself in his room and lounging around in a t-shirt for the rest of the evening.

He rounds the corner to find Derek leaning against his jeep, holding a gigantic plaid monstrosity of a hipster scarf and sporting the biggest shit-eating grin Stiles has ever laid eyes on.

“Oh my God, you bastard, I _hate_ you. How did you even get this organised? I only mentioned the scarf thing last night!” Stiles squawks indignantly, stopping beside the passenger-side door to hit Derek’s arm with the bag of scarves. “Your stupid betas put six damn scarves on me while we were all still indoors. They nearly gave me heat stroke.”

“Why are they always _my_ betas when they’re in trouble and _our_ betas when you’re happy with them?” Stiles curses the day he discovered Derek had a sense of humour, he really does. It was all much easier to deal with when he got nothing but threats and glaring.

“Oh, shut up. See if I ever let you in my pants again.” He huffs out a breath that he can see in the frigid air, trying very hard not to think about how it makes him look like a petulant baby dragon. If he laughs, Derek wins.

Derek’s grin doesn’t slip at all. It grows, if anything; turns predatory. Derek steps forward, slipping into his personal space and pinning him against the jeep. Stiles shivers slightly as Derek’s cold fingers make contact with his skin, gently tugging Erica’s scarf off and replacing it with his own. The material is soft against his throat and he’s fighting a losing battle not to let Derek know exactly how badly he wants to jump his bones right here in the school parking lot.

He apparently figures it out anyway, because the scarf is barely on before Derek's fingers are running through his hair, before he feels rough stubble against his chin as their lips meet and a low feral sound makes its way up Derek’s throat.

Proximity to every last one of his teachers and classmates forgotten, Stiles slips his hands around Derek’s waist to grab his ass and pull him closer; bites down ever so slightly on his bottom lip and slides one of his legs between Derek’s thighs. Stiles can feel how hard Derek is already and he’s not much better himself. He can see this ending with a sloppy handjob in the back of his jeep, and honestly? He is _more_ than okay with that. In fact, he’s about to try to pull them in that direction a little early when—

A wolf-whistle and the too-loud sound of an iPhone camera comes from behind them.

Derek whirls around, absolutely livid, and there, standing two spaces away, are Jackson and Danny. Jackson, of course, is the source of the wolf-whistle and the camera and Danny seems to just be appreciating the view. Stiles can’t say that he blames him; Derek from behind is a pretty awesome sight. Jackson on the other hand? Yeah. Grade A douchebag.

“Ugh. This is your stupid idea of revenge for the wolfsbane thing, isn’t it?” Stiles sighs, still leaning against the jeep, wondering whether the phone has a direct feed to Facebook or if there’s going to a blackmail attempt involved first. It’s not as if he and Derek are any kind of secret, but he’d prefer not to have a picture of them being all over each other floating around the internet. Stuff like that has a way of coming back to bite people on the ass. “Delete them. I have a werewolf on a leash here and I’m not afraid to use him.”

“Excuse me?” Derek says beside him, eyebrows ascending into his hairline.

“Shh, I’m getting into a groove here, honey, don’t ruin it.” Stiles mutters back, patting him on the arm. He can actually _feel_ Derek rolling his eyes beside him.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but I know you like me anyway.” Stiles pronounces smugly. “So, now there’s no getting rid of me.”

“Could you two quit being an old married couple for five seconds?” Jackson demands, clearly annoyed at not being given the attention he thinks he deserves. “I’m not afraid of Derek. You’ve had him house-broken for months now.”

“Wanna bet?” Derek’s eyes flash red as a warning. Stiles can see the sharp points of his teeth just starting to appear.

Sexually frustrated as he is, Stiles is pretty sure they’re not going to be getting alone time any time soon. Plus he’s tired and there just aren’t enough hours in the day to be dealing with this sort of shit. He figures he’ll just leave Derek to exact the proper vengeance.

“Okay, much as I’d love to be here while Derek tears you a new one for all of this, I have homework.” He clambers into the driver’s seat and kisses Derek’s head affectionately. “Go get him. I’ll see you later when I’m not buried in essays and scarves.”

“I’ll bring you that phone on a pike.” Derek assures him.

As he pulls out of the parking lot he can see Derek making a grab for the iPhone in his rear-view mirror as Jackson tries to dodge and (presumably) email them to himself at the same time. Danny is just standing by, laughing and shaking his head. Stiles would worry about it, but he knows Jackson has enough self-preservation instinct not to try and post them online. And if he doesn’t, Danny will more than likely talk him out of it.

Besides, he has work to do and a bag of knitwear to find a home for.

 

~

 

He’s about halfway through essay number one (of _five_. He’s honestly convinced there’s a conspiracy going on to keep him from having any free time) when he hears the front door open and his dad’s work boots pounding up the stairs.

“Hey kiddo, I was thinking we could have pizza for—“ He pauses in the doorway, frowning, with his eyes flicking around the room.

Stiles follows them and it occurs to him that the sudden scarf surplus might look a little bit odd. Quickly followed by the feeling that, however you’re supposed to store scarves, hanging them off every convenient object like some form of woolly tinsel probably isn’t it.

In his defence, he’s never had this many before. He doesn’t know the protocol. He’d just needed somewhere to put them.

He self-consciously gathers the gigantic plaid one Derek had handed him closer to his neck, making sure it covers everything. It clashes with every single other item of plaid he owns (which he’s actually somewhat impressed by. That sort of thing takes skill), but it’s big, comfy, and smells like Derek, so he’s not complaining. Not to mention it’ll be easier to wash than any of the others. He’s honestly terrified of spilling anything on them.

He watches as his dad’s eyes take another lap of the room – from the scarf on his neck, to the ones lining his walls and bookcases, to the Batman one carefully wrapped around the framed picture on his desk – and his frown deepens, but in the end he seems to decide he doesn’t want to know.

“Dinner’s in 30 minutes or less, what do you want on your pizza?” Is what he goes with in the end. Stiles honestly can’t blame him.

 

~

 

Two days later, Stiles wanders into school in the scarf Lydia had given him. It turns out being given a billion scarves requires more diplomacy than he’d have thought, and he’s planning to rotate them on a daily basis to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings.

Isaac bounds up to him almost immediately, brandishing a fully finished scarf.

“Oh, man. Aww, that’s like, really, really great. I want to hug it, and then, like, hug you.” Stiles can’t stop grinning awkwardly. “Possibly that might be weird, I don’t know. But it’s all hand-made and thoughtful and stuff, I love it. It’s my new favourite.”

In the end Isaac rolls his eyes and pats him on the shoulder, possibly just to shut him up.

“You’re welcome. Quit being such a dork.”

“Duly noted.” Stiles replies, putting Lydia’s scarf back in his bag and wrapping Isaac’s around his neck in its place. “But, dude, if Lydia asks? I was wearing the one _Scott_ gave me before I put yours on. She will scratch both our eyes out, I’m not even kidding.”

“Duly noted.” Isaac parrots back at him, still rolling his eyes. It’s starting to look painful.

“Oh, shut up. When she kills you and makes it look like an accident, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

~

 

And he thinks that’s the end of it – that _has_ to be the end of it, right? Every member of the pack has given him one at this point. What could be left? – except when he gets to lacrosse practice, Danny’s waiting beside his locker, holding out another huge hipster scarf. This one has stars on it.

“Jackson told me he’d delete those pictures of you and _Miguel_ if I gave you a scarf. I was afraid to ask why, honestly. So here.” Danny doesn’t seem like he’s going to be letting the Miguel thing go anytime soon. He’d been pretty pissed when he found out, though Stiles is pretty sure he’s doing it more as a joke now than anything. At least he hopes so. Danny’s a really cool guy, and Stiles doesn’t want him to hate him. “Does this mean I’m part of whatever crazy cult your boyfriend’s running now? On Wednesdays do you wear scarves?”

Stiles doesn’t even bother responding to the cult comment; he’s used to Danny’s scathing tone whenever the pack is brought up. It might have something to do with how much time Jackson is suddenly spending with them. He drops down on the bench and buries his head between his arms.

“How the hell is this my life?” He whines, his voice muffled even to his ears. “I’m running out of places to put these damn things.”

He can feel Danny hovering beside him.

“Do I want to know about the scarves?” He asks, eventually.

“I don’t know. Probably not. It’s less nefarious than it looks, I promise.” He finally raises his head. “They’re not, like... drug scarves or anything.”

Stiles isn’t even going to pretend he doesn’t deserve the look Danny’s giving him right now. That really wasn’t one of his better moments.

Thankfully he’s saved from further embarrassment by Coach Finstock barging in to give them a pep talk, put the fear of God into them, insult Greenberg... The usual, essentially.

He ducks behind the row of lockers and changes quickly, stowing the scarves in his bag. Danny gives his neck a definite Look, but doesn’t say anything.

 

~

 

He’s pretty exhausted when he gets home that night, though he can smell take-out as soon as he walks in the front door, so things are definitely looking up. He pulls the three scarves out of his bag and he’s about to head up to his room with them when he hears his dad clearing his throat beside him.

“Stiles. We need to talk about the scarves.”

And that’s... unexpected to say the least. If there were ever going to be an awkward conversation, he always figured it would be about the well-stocked box of lube and condoms under the loose floorboard in his room. Or possibly the werewolves, but they’d already had that one. This was coming right out of left field.

“Are we seriously having an intervention for scarves right now?” Stiles asks, completely unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice. “A scarftervention. Is that what’s happening?”

His dad looks pointedly between the scarves Stiles is currently holding and the one on his neck.

“There were at least six upstairs, last I saw, and two of the ones you have with you are new.” He raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms.

“Hey, don’t pull your super-observant, I’m-a-police-officer-Stiles, eagle-eyed stuff on me! That’s not fair.” Stiles gestures wildly with his hands, the ends of the scarves flying everywhere as he moves. “I can’t believe you’re the second person I’ve had to say this to today, but these aren’t _drugs_ , they’re _accessories_. There’s no ‘I can stop anytime I want’ or ‘you’re tearing this family apart’ here, there’s just... I don’t know, fashion?”

“Because you’ve always been so interested in fashion.” He gets the distinct impression his dad is trying not to laugh at him.

“Who says I’m not into fashion? Plaid and scarves are just in this year.”

“No, they’re not.” And this time he’s _definitely_ being laughed at. “All I was going to say was—“ He breaks off, pausing to toss something in Stiles’ direction. He catches it and it turns out to be a small bottle of concealer. “If you’re going to be this obvious about covering your neck, you could at least use some of this next time.”

Stiles’ mouth is just hanging open in disbelief at this point. This is not how he envisioned his evening going.

“And take this too.” He takes a plastic bag up off the table in the hall and hands it to Stiles. It turns out to have one of those fold-up hanging storage units in it that Stiles is at least eighty percent sure are meant to be for shoes, but it’s the thought that counts. “Because – and I mean this in the nicest way possible – your room is starting to scare me.”

Stiles can’t do anything except laugh.

“Okay. Thanks... I guess?” He’d really like this conversation to be over right now. “I’m just gonna go up to my room and die of embarrassment if that’s okay?”

“Dinner’s in ten minutes.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, son.”

 

~

 

He walks into the pack’s hide-out with a purpose in mind the next day. He has had _such_ a long week, and he is getting _vengeance_ , okay?

“Hi there.” Derek says, reclining across a full pair of seats on the right hand side of the train and resting his feet on the ones on the left, deliberately not looking up from the book he’s reading. Obviously he’d heard Stiles trying to sneak up on him and wanted to prove a point, but Stiles isn’t even sure where he got the book from. It seems like a lot of effort to go to just to seem nonchalant; particularly because there isn’t exactly an abundance of shelves in the abandoned train depot.

Not for the first time, it occurs to Stiles that he should really encourage Derek to live somewhere that doesn’t make you feel in need of a tetanus shot every time you touch anything, but now is not the time.

“The rest of the pack out?” He asks innocently, fully aware that he’d made sure they’d be elsewhere before he came. Derek’s single raised eyebrow as he puts the book down on the set of seats in front of his own means Stiles is probably not fooling anyone, but no matter. He drops the bag he’d been carrying down next to Derek’s book and plants his knees either side of Derek’s legs on the seat, bracing his arms on Derek’s shoulders. “I have an idea.”

“That rarely ends well for anyone.” Derek’s other eyebrow has now joined the first one in mocking him. Though his pupils are starting to dilate visibly, so he’s not as immune to Stiles’ charms as he’s trying to pretend.

“Uh-huh. So, I guess you don’t need me to help come up with the pack training manoeuvres anymore, right?” He leans in to plant a quick kiss on Derek’s lips before pulling back again. “Since my ideas are so terrible and all.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. You have your moments.” Derek has the beginnings of a fairly goofy grin on his face now. Which, really, Stiles will never tire of putting there. He will honestly never be able to get enough of that expression, or the way it makes the corners of Derek’s eyes crinkle slightly.

“Well, ye of little faith, I’m about to have one of those moments right now.” He leans in again, more purposeful this time, running his teeth along Derek’s jawline. “Because I’m tired of being the only one who gets marked in this relationship, and you’ve made this last week all kinds of embarrassing for me, so I have come for revenge. I’m going to go ahead and not leave here ‘til I’ve finally given you a mark that stays. Any objections?”

“None whatsoever.” Derek murmurs, sounding very pleased, tilting his head slightly to bare his neck. “You know they’ll fade as soon as you make them, though. We can both have a lot of fun trying, but expecting them to stay just because you want them to is ridiculous.”

Stiles pulls back again, mortally offended that Derek doubts his ability to make this happen.

“Dude, thanks to you I have so many scarves in my room I could actually build a cocoon out of them and emerge as a beautiful Stiles-fly in a month or so. Do not tell me _I’m_ the one being ridiculous here. My ridiculousness threshold has officially been broken this week.” He gestures unconsciously with his right hand, making himself wobble slightly, and Derek places his hands on his waist to steady him.

 “No, it’s been decided.” He proclaims grandly. “I have single-minded determination; I am the magical spark, the king of the miraculous mountain ash circles, and the owner of far too many neck accessories; if I want to give my werewolf boyfriend a magical hickey, then that’s what I’ll do.”

“Have I mentioned you’re an idiot?”

“That’s magical idiot to you, buddy.” Stiles pokes him lightly in the chest.

Derek actually snorts.

“Now, let me concentrate. If this is gonna work, I have to have _faith_.” He’s about to lean in again, when—

“...are you really muttering ‘believe’ under your breath right now? Just to give me a magical hickey?”

Stiles hadn’t actually realised he’d been doing that out loud. Though possibly he’d just been mouthing it and Derek’s werewolf senses caught on to him.

“Don’t question my methods.” He replies quickly. “And shush. You have to let me concentrate.”

Stiles focuses on the task at hand then, tilting to the right and bringing his lips to Derek’s neck. He can tell Derek doesn’t believe anything is going to happen, but judging by the noises he’s making within moments of Stiles starting, he could really care less.  

He can feel Derek’s hands tightening on his waist, his fingers digging in as Stiles starts to nip at his jawline with his teeth and lets one of his hands wander downwards. The more he gets into a rhythm, the more he can feel that same tingling in his hands that he’d felt closing the circle of mountain ash, the more he can feel that faint electricity in the air around him, the more he believes this might actually work.

He pulls back several minutes later, fairly certain he’s accomplished his goal, to survey his work. Derek’s neck is a _mess,_ and if he’s being honest, so is Derek; looking back at him slack-jawed with half-lidded eyes, his pupils fully blown now. Stiles is actually pretty proud of himself, and apparently he’s not the only one with a bit of a secret marking kink, which is information he files away for future reference. The lighter marks and the edges of the darker ones are already fading before his eyes, but lo and behold, the patch of skin where he’d most concentrated, where he’d most felt that tell-tale tingle of magic in his fingers, that patch doesn’t fade one tiny bit. It just sits there, in defiance of all of Derek’s crazy werewolf healing powers, proving Stiles right.

A wicked grin lights up Stiles’ face as he reaches into the bag he brought, pulling out a soft, loosely knit, dark blue scarf with small flecks of grey running through the wool. He’s dubbed it The Scarf of Revenge and Infinite Smugness (which, now that he’s in the situation that he actually gets to use it, he thinks is pretty accurate) and he loops it gently around Derek’s neck with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Present for you, honey.” He places a quick kiss on Derek's forehead then quickly pulls back, planting his feet on the ground this time and standing back up. “Told you I was magic. Oh yeah, look at me; Stiles Stilinski, the official wizard of the Beacon Hills wolf pack!”

Derek seems to wake up out of his stupor then. “Wait, what? It actually worked?”

He only now seems to register that he’s wearing a scarf and Stiles is in the process of walking away, blowing him a kiss as he goes.

“No... What? Where are you going?” Stiles thinks his confused little face is adorable.

“I told you,” Stiles says, laughing. “I came here for revenge. I have revenge, plus bonus confirmation that I’m actually magic, now I have homework. Enjoy the scarf. Toodles.”

He waves cheerily, sauntering out of the train car and back to his jeep, leaving Derek completely shell-shocked behind him.

Before he turns the key in the ignition he fires off a text.

 

**To: Scott**

**From: Stiles**

**hey next time you see deaton tell him i think i’m a wizard**

**but i can’t tell him *why***

**xoxo gossip stiles (ps: come over for halo later)**

**To: Stiles**

**From: Scott**

**??????!**

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! =]
> 
> Not that I'm deluded enough to expect fan-art of any kind for my fics, but I just thought I'd state that my policy on it is: "YES PLEASE, I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER. PLEASE SHOW IT TO ME WHEN YOU'RE DONE SO I CAN BASK IN ITS GLORY."
> 
> Also if you want to message/follow me on Tumblr my url is lucy-in-the-soup-with-croutons.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [With Scarves of Red Wrapped 'Round Their Throats](https://archiveofourown.org/works/580371) by [BlackRose16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackRose16/pseuds/BlackRose16)




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